Model Behavior

by Carter, M. E.

  The more I spend time with the Roberts, the more I like it. And that scares me.

  I can feel myself getting too attached to this little family. I think about them all the time and wonder what they’re up to. It’s confusing because I don’t know if Matthew feels the same, considering my well-established boundaries. A man has needs, ya know, and I don’t plan on being the one to fill them. So where does that leave us?

  Whatever, Carrie, I think to myself as I open my video messenger app. You’ve got bigger things to worry about than whether or not Matthew like likes you.

  It’s like I’m in sixth grade all over again. I guess it doesn’t matter how old you get, wondering if the guy you’re crushing on feels the same never changes.

  Time to act like an adult. I have business to discuss.

  Clicking the accept button when it rings, Celeste’s boobs come into view.

  “Ah!” I scream and sit back, throwing my hand over my eyes. “Why are you trying to poke my eyes out online?”

  She backs up, sitting on her chair so I can see her, not just a massive amount of cleavage. She may be tiny, but she’s got huge knockers. They’re always getting in her way. “Sorry. I dropped my pen right after I called you and of course it rolled halfway across the table.”

  “Well, it was a lovely hello,” I say sarcastically, tucking one foot underneath me and settling in for what could be a long conversation. We don’t do this often because when we do, we get chatty. Up to three hours chatty.

  Celeste shrugs, her curly blonde mop immediately springing back in place when her shoulder drops. “I got a new bra. It better make me look good for the price I paid.” Picking up her notepad, she doesn’t lollygag around, instead getting right down to business. “Okay. First things first, I don’t have three hours today. Tickets for the next Prince of Darkness con go on sale in thirty-eight minutes so I have to be finished with this and have my mouse hovering over the purchase button by then.”

  “Isn’t it still ten months away?”

  “Nine,” she corrects. “After that obnoxious flu that knocked me out this year, I can’t risk losing out on tickets. I will get Hunter Stone to sign my playbill! I will!”

  “Calm down there, psycho. We won’t let you lose your chance.” Mostly because I know how devastated she was earlier this year. She had been looking forward to the event for so long.

  Celeste nods once and I know from experience that means the topic has been discussed appropriately and we’re ready to move on. “Next item, I confirmed that new advertiser we talked about.”

  “Nice. Who is it again?”

  She clicks around on her computer while she talks, probably multitasking. It used to bother me that she wasn’t keeping 100 percent of her attention on our conversations, but I learned quickly that she is one of the only people I’ve ever met that can truly keep all of her attention on the task at hand, while juggling three other things. It’s a useful skill. And a weird one.

  Me? I can’t keep track of my own socks, let alone all the schedules she has. Just another of the many reasons we complement each other.

  Hot mess, meet list maker.

  “It’s called Tiger Talent. They’re a talent agency specializing in acting classes, modeling classes, things like that,” she explains. “They want to do a bi-weekly run for three months.”

  “Ooh!” I say with a smile. “That’s a nice little payout.”

  More clicking of her keys. “It’s not bad. And hopefully it’ll open up opportunities with other agencies or maybe some touring theater groups.” A dreamy look crosses her face. “Could you imagine if the touring company for Kinky Boots advertised on our blog? I would die.”

  “With as much traffic as the site has had the last few weeks, it’s not an unreasonable goal.”

  Celeste shakes her head like I’m being ridiculous. “Don’t get my hopes up. By the way, their marketing team already has the graphics they want used, I’ll just need you to copy edit for any errors.”

  “On it, boss.” And I am, jotting it down on my own to-do list which may or may not get lost at some point.

  “How’s it going on your end?” she asks, moving us right along. No surprise there. She lives for lists and organization, but currently, she lives for her chance to meet Hunter Stone. I glance at the time and know her pulse is probably beginning to race at the prospect of securing a ticket to see him.

  “Good. Visibility for new releases is climbing and click through is adjusting accordingly. I’ve secured one of those new ad contracts we talked about too. That publisher I made contact with last month wants to get some visibility on their new release.”

  “Ooh, good one. We could potentially secure long-term ads out of them.” Celeste continues to type away, no doubt taking notes on this meeting. Maybe I should do that too. Nah. I’ll get a detailed e-mail later, I’m sure.

  “I know. And another lead came in yesterday. I got an email from the organizers of an author event. I’m pretty excited about that one, obviously.”

  Celeste’s eyebrows rise in interest. “Oh, I like that. A win-win for them and us. With your reviews and our reach, it may help with their ticket sales.”

  I nod in agreement. “That’s exactly what I was thinking. It’s only a one-month ad to see how it does, but if the numbers look good, I can reach out to a few more event coordinators as well.”

  Celeste blows out a breath, and I can tell she’s suddenly feeling frustrated.

  “What’s up? Why are you making that face?”

  The clacking of her keyboard stops and she looks me dead in the eye. “What face?”

  I wave my hand around, gesturing to her face. “The one that says you’re frustrated. Usually you reserve it for me when I’m close to missing my deadline.”

  That intimidating eyebrow quirks again. “Are you?”

  “Am I what?” I know my shifty eyes are giving me away, but I’ll never admit defeat.

  “Are you behind?”

  “Not by much.”

  She groans and drops her head on her arms. See? It’s our balance.

  “Seriously, Celeste,” I plead. “I’m not that far behind. I just keep getting distracted from this book, so it’s taking me a little time.”

  Her head pops up, blonde curls bouncing in her face. “It’s Donna Moreno. How bad could it be?”

  I scoff. “Excuse you. Do not put words in my mouth. I didn’t say it’s bad. I said I’ve been distracted.”

  “By what?” she asks, eyes darting to the corner of the screen where I know the time and date sit.

  “You mean besides a baby squirrel that has to eat every five hours and the world’s worst pedicure?”

  She cocks her head, and I know she’s sizing me up. It makes me nervous, to be honest. Like she can see right through me. Can she see how Matthew has invaded my thoughts, making it impossible to read? Can she tell I’ve been spending more time looking at him on the cover of Donna’s new book than reading the words inside of it?

  “I call bullshit on the squirrel because you’re always doing that,” she finally says, “And while I’m not doubting the terrible pedicure, I think something else is going on.”

  I sit back in my chair, crossing my arms defensively.

  “However,” she continues, “I have just twenty-four minutes until tickets go on sale so I’ll ignore it for now. Instead, I’ll use it as a segue to our next topic. I know we’ve tossed around the idea of bringing on a third blogger.” I roll my eyes at this continuing topic of conversation. “But I think we should revisit. We’re starting to get stagnant, and I don’t want that. So what do you think for real?”

  The same thing I thought last time we talked. It would be nice to have another person contributing to the workload, but the financial part of it kind of sucks.

  “We’re finally to a place where we’re making a little money. I just hate the idea of it being a three-way split.” Resting my arms on the table, I lean in. “I know that’s not very business minded, but I don’t
know if the workload justifies that expense yet.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that part.” I can tell by the gleam in Celeste’s eye and the tap of her pen that she’s found a solution she thinks I’ll like. “What about my roommate, Anna?”

  Not the heavy-hitting solution I was expecting, but I can run with it.

  “What about her?”

  “Well, you cover books and television adaptations. I cover performance arts and some movies. If we’re going to expand, we need to think about covering everything audio related. Music, podcasts, maybe even audiobooks.”

  She has a good point. Readers and theater lovers listen to music too. If we’re trying to bring in new followers, it’s not a bad way to go. Still, it won’t be an easy transition.

  “I like what you’re thinking, but why Anna?”

  “Because she’s busting her tail trying to make a name for herself in the music industry. Who better than a semi-professional musician to critique the latest in music trends?”

  Another good point. But I may as well throw Debbie Downer into the mix.

  “And how are we supposed to pay her while we wait for advertising to follow?”

  “We don’t.”

  I furrow my brow at the excited look on her face. I feel like I’m missing something. “So make her work for free? In my experience, that doesn’t usually go over well.”

  “You have no experience,” Celeste spouts off. “Besides, as we’re building, we can do a trade for ad space. We can ease her in slowly since we need time to build the pages on the website anyway. And when her next single releases, we give her a free ad to help her generate some sales.”

  Nodding, I have to admit the idea has merit. “Talk to her about it. If she’s on board, that would be great. If not, I don’t know.” I run my hands down my face, feeling as exhausted as I probably look. These overnight feedings are still killing me. “But you’re right. If we become stale we’ll start losing followers. We need to stay fresh, and this could be a good way to accomplish that.”

  Celeste taps a few keys, no doubt a note to revisit the topic later pending Anna’s answer.

  “What else is on that list of yours? You have less than twenty minutes.”

  She doesn’t even look up from her notes to respond. “I have a timer set.” Of course she does. “The last item we need to discuss is why you keep twirling that pink plastic ring on your thumb and if it has anything to do with why you’re distracted lately.”

  Quickly I look down and realize, she’s right. The ring Calypso gave me last night for being the “bestest squirrel brother mommy in the history of the world” has been sitting in a pride spot next to my computer since I got home last night. Because who could resist beautiful plastic jewelry with a pitch like that? I just didn’t realize I’d picked it up.

  “Umm…” I stutter, trying not to give myself away. “I got it from a little friend. That’s all. You know… animals and… all that.”

  “Mm hmm.” She doesn’t sound convinced. “I don’t believe you. Your face is as red as your shirt.”

  I gape at her. “It is not! I can see myself in the little box and… oh shit. Good lord, I look like a tomato.”

  “Like I said.” Sitting back, she crosses her arms, only this isn’t a defensive move. She looks more like a petite little bouncer wanna be. “Spill.”

  Sighing dramatically, I cave. Mostly because she’s not going to let up. Also because I have to get it off my chest. But primarily because she’s not going to let up. Whatever. She’s relentless as she… sits. Staring. And waiting. It’s disconcerting.

  “Fine. I got it from a friend’s six-year-old daughter, okay?”

  “Keep going.”

  I throw my hands up. “What do you mean by that?”

  “You’re leaving out details. Keep going.”

  I huff and puff and try to throw her off the trail, but to no avail. “How can you be so sure I’m holding back?”

  “Because I’m a stage manager,” Celeste retorts. “For actual actors. And this performance”—she pauses and points her finger in my direction, mimicking my move from her boob-filled greeting—“is the worst I’ve seen in a long time.”

  Well shit.

  I try to stare her down, but we both know she has a while until her alarm is going to go off and there’s no way I can hold on that long. When it comes to the battle of stubborn, she wins every time.

  “Fine!” I throw my hands in the air again and ignore her victorious smile. “It’s a male friend.”

  “So you’re dating someone.”

  “No,” I scoff. “Maybe. Not really. I don’t know.”

  Celeste squinches her eyes and scratches her head, making her mop even bigger, which I refuse to point out so she can fix it because she’s irritating me. “Is this about that sex thing again?”

  Cue another scoff from me. “It’s not a sex thing. I’ve made a conscious decision to not just hand out that part of myself to any Tom, Dick, or Harry that comes along.”

  “Is his name any of those?”

  “His name is Matthew,” I say slowly, unsure of where she’s going and not trusting it.

  “Problem solved. Sleep with him already.”

  I love Celeste. I do. But she doesn’t understand my decision. It’s something we’ll never see eye-to-eye on since she’s all about “free love”.

  “That’s not helpful,” I deadpan.

  “I know, I know.” But does she? Does she really? “It usually makes it easier to figure out if you’ve been friend-zoned or not if you’re having sex.”

  “Really. Because I seem to remember how muddy the waters were in your last relationship for that very reason.”

  Celeste points her finger at the screen dramatically. Theater nerds, ugh. “That was an isolated case by a jerk who wanted to sleep his way to the top of the theater world.”

  “I know. And I’m not trying to turn it around on you. It’s just not as cut and dry as I would like it to be. We’ve hung out a couple times. I like his kid. She’s funny. And yes, he knows there will be no physical intimacy.”

  “So you friend-zoned him.”

  I open my mouth to argue with her but stop. Because holy shit. Did I friend-zone him without meaning to? Quickly, I rewind the conversation we had that night.

  I turned.

  He kissed my ear.

  I told him we weren’t having sex.

  I became acquainted with myself, in the biblical sense, with the picture of him next to my pillow. Not that he will ever know that part.

  I texted him about Australia the next day…

  Groaning, I drop my head to the table with a loud thump. “Oh shit. Did I friend-zone him?”

  “No idea. I don’t even know who this guy is.”

  And I will never tell her. Because bad things happen when I toss things like names and scenarios out into the universe. It’s like Murphy’s Law. The minute I say how I feel out loud something thwarts it all.

  “Wait just a gosh darn minute!”

  Uh oh. Celest doesn’t exclaim much. She organizes, argues, and processes. She might even be combative. But exclaim isn’t usually her thing. Unless she’s putting puzzle pieces together. Puzzle pieces called Murphy’s Law.

  Lifting my head just enough to look at her, I see her focusing on something over my shoulder. “What?”

  “Why do you have that picture still on your corkboard?”

  My eyebrows shoot up and I turn to look, probably turning the color of my shirt again. Realizing what it is, I turn back around and lie through my teeth. “So I don’t forget what’s coming up.”

  The most annoying imitation of a buzzer comes out of Celeste’s mouth. If she never makes that noise again, it will be too soon. “Try again. You never leave things on your corkboard once you start reading, which you already have. You use the post cards as a bookmark.”

  “So I forgot? So what?” I shift in my seat uncomfortably. She’s onto me. The question is how long can I deflect before her tim
er goes off?

  “Liar!” she shouts, banging her hand on the table, which makes the computer vibrate. These theater types are so dramatic. “You have a picture of Matthew Roberts on your corkboard. Matthew Roberts has a daughter.”

  “How do you know that?” I demand.

  “Everyone knows that,” she says without stopping her rant. “You said you’re dating a Matthew that you don’t know if you friend-zoned because you told him you weren’t sleeping with him, but you’re tied up in knots because cover models always have women chasing after them so what if he only thinks you friend-zoned him when really you want him to woo you, but you don’t know if he can because he has a six-year-old daughter who you also love because she gave you that fancy piece of jewelry you’re messing with again.”

  Immediately, I toss the ring away, wondering how in the hell she said all that without pausing or taking a breath.

  “Also,” she continues, finger in the air momentarily as she pauses for dramatic effect, “ohmygod you’re dating Matthew Roberts!”

  And this is why I didn’t want to tell her. Listening to her squeal and clap for joy was not on my list of things to do today. Neither was explaining the situation to her, but clearly I’m not getting out of it now. Why hasn’t that timer gone off yet?!

  “Okay,” she says, pushing her hair out of her face. “I’m calm. I’m calm. Now tell me everything.”

  Reluctantly, I do. Well, not everything. I don’t tell her about the kiss. Or about Delilah. Or even much about Calypso. Some things should stay between two people, especially when one of your friends is trying to write a kick-ass screenplay. No one needs to make my life into a best-selling anything.

  Truthfully, it feels good to get it off my chest. To let someone I have a reasonable amount of trust in know my insecurities and help me process my feelings out loud. To just hear my fears.

  “So, I don’t know where we stand,” I say when I catch her all the way up. “It doesn’t feel weird or anything. It just doesn’t have that hint of promise anymore.”

  “Did it ever?”

  I shrug because, maybe? Like right before he tried to kiss me there was a small moment that could have been that hint. Or maybe I imagined it. It’s possible he was only looking for a fling when I offered him my ear and not my lips.